A Quarter of a Million

Detective Sergeant Richardson’s keen eye took in every detail of the man’s appearance.

‘There he is. Funny looking chap, isn’t he? You wouldn’t think a man with a face like that could get away with half a million.” He spoke softly and without turning his head, and the inconspicuous figure at his side grinned.

“You wouldn’t think he could count to half a million, by the look of him,” Sergeant Murdoch observed.

“Probably can’t,” said Richardson drily, and the two Yard detectives remained standing where they were on the quay, watching the stream of passengers hurrying down the gangway from the Channel steamer.

The man they were looking towards moved slowly away from the boat, almost as though he were loath to set foot on English ground. He was a strange-looking man, approaching sixty, heavily built and small-eyed. He was well dressed but his clothes sagged upon him, indicating suddenly lost weight. There was a stoop about his shoulders also, and a certain furtiveness in his glance.

This was Joseph Thurtle, the man who three months before had been at the head of a large American cotton combine. The spectacular crash of the company and the subsequent revelation of its affairs had turned Mr. Thurtle from a millionaire to a hunted fugitive.

The sensational story of his escape from the States with at least half a million sterling in negotiable securities had made front page news. Extradition warrants had followed him from country to country. He had fled from France to Italy, from Italy to Greece to North Africa, and now, as he set foot in England, he did so with the knowledge that the police must have prepared a suitable reception for him.

As he stepped off the boat he had looked behind him sharply. It was quite evident to the two men who watched that he expected a hand on his shoulder at any moment.

“Come on. We’ll follow him through Customs.”

Richardson spoke quietly. A flicker of disgust passed across his red face.

“I don’t like this method of Parker’s,” he added. “Why not arrest the man right away and put him out of his misery? This waiting for him at Victoria, so that he can have a snappy arrest with the Press standing round admiring is a bit cheap, to my mind.”

“Detective Inspector Parker is a bit cheap,” said Murdoch. “You and I have been on this job for ten years, and I was thinking, have you ever before heard of or known a fellow with Parker’s reputation at the Yard? He’s an unpopular publicity hound. Come on! We’ll keep an eye on this poor devil until he gets out of the train at Victoria feeling perfectly safe and walks straight into the arms of the unpleasant Parker and a battery of cameras.”

They sauntered into the crowd and, with the ease of long practice, edged their way through the jostling groups of passengers until they walked directly behind the man they shadowed.

There were many friends and relations awaiting passengers on the Folkestone Harbour station, but there was one young man among the throng who served in neither capacity. He was a shortish, round-faced, fair-haired individual with a foolish expression and rather blank, trusting blue eyes.

He observed Joseph Thurtle and sauntered forward casually as the man came hurrying down the platform. When he was within a few feet of Thurtle, however, he caught sight of the officials walking behind the financier. He hurried past the man and climbed into another compartment. To all outward appearances there had been nothing odd in his behaviour, and yet in that brief instant quite an important person had abandoned one plan and embarked upon another.

The fair young man sat himself in a corner, turned up the collar of his great coat, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and prepared to go to sleep.

Mr. Joseph Thurtle, with his attendant spirits, settled himself in another compartment farther down the train. It was cold. The station looked damp and unattractive and as the train slid through the chalky tunnels on the upward run, some of the dank hopelessness of the day seemed to permeate the consciousness of every traveller.

Thurtle was afraid. He was also puzzled. He had felt that his landing in England was tantamount to handing himself over to the police, and coming over in the boat he had steeled himself to face an arrest upon the quay.

It had not come. He could not understand it. He leaned farther back into the cushions and peered out at the sodden landscape with weary, anxious eyes. He had played a dangerous game and he had lost. He wondered idly if life in prison was as bad or worse than current reports would have it.

The innocent old lady sitting opposite him thought he looked very tired, and wondered if he had found the crossing as trying as she herself had done.

Meanwhile, on Victoria station, Inspector Parker strode up and down the platform, his fingers caressing the handcuffs in his coat pocket. This situation he enjoyed. He was like that. His career had been one long line of rather unsavoury little triumphs which had forced him slowly to his present position.

There were camera men outside the station, and he was looking forward to a photograph of himself in the evening papers handcuffed to the celebrated absconding financier. It was against the rules, he knew. The superintendent would comment upon it unfavourably; but Inspector Parker privately considered that the publicity would be worth it. As he waited for the train he amused himself by imagining suitable captions beneath the picture.

Parker was pleased with himself. Soon after he had received Richardson’s phone message from Folkestone saying that Thurtle had boarded the train, he had hurried down to the station, and incurred the totally unnecessary expense of keeping a taxi waiting outside so that he might walk straight into it with his charge.

As soon as the train was signalled, he retired to the ticket barrier and stood waiting for his man. The train came in, and immediately the partially deserted platform sprang to life, as carriage doors swung open and weary and excited travellers swarmed out, clamoured for their luggage, lost their children and rushed to and fro after the manner of their kind.

Richardson reached the barrier first. “He’s just coming, sir,” he said. “You can’t miss him. Black overcoat, check muffler, soft travelling hat.”

“All right, all right. You leave this to me, Richardson.”

Parker spoke testily, as though the man had been hindering him rather than giving him information.

Richardson surrendered his ticket and wandered over to the bookstall to wait for Murdoch. The faintly contemptuous expression which always came into his face after dealings with his chief was very apparent.

Thurtle came heavily down the platform towards the barrier. Most of the fire which had once made him such a dangerous force in the business world had long since died down. He was old, tired, and at the end of his tether.

Detective Inspector Parker pounced upon him as he stepped through the barrier.

“Joseph Thurtle!” he said.

The man swung round, and as he faced his captor there was an expression in his eyes which was almost relief. It had come at last, then. The wearing uncertainty was over. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes. You are a police officer, aren’t you? Very well. I’ll come with you, only don’t make a scene here!”

D. I. Parker was a man who took an officious pride in his job. He recited the formula of arrest clearly and unnecessarily loudly, and then, producing his handcuffs, slipped a bracelet over the older man’s right wrist.

“Surely that’s unnecessary? I said I’d come with you.”

The man who had shunned publicity all his life glanced nervously at the curious crowd which was beginning to collect.

“I’m sorry!” The inspector spoke curtly. The other bracelet of the handcuff was attached to his own wrist now, and together they walked across the platform, a small section of the crowd streaming after them.

On the top of the steps, in the archway to the station drive, D. I. Parker paused for an instant to glance behind him, ostensibly to look for Murdoch. It was only for a moment, but it gave the photographers time. A faint smile of satisfaction spread over the inspector’s face, as he hurried over to his waiting taxi.

Had he been a little less pleased with himself, it is conceivable that he might have noticed a single swift glance which passed between the driver of the cab and a plumpish, fair young man, who had come out of the station by another door. It is also just possible that the inspector’s sharp, well-trained eyes might have observed that the driver, although remarkably like, was, indeed, not the actual man who had driven him from the Yard less than twenty minutes before.

“I suppose you’re taking me to a police station?”

The crumpled, dejected prisoner, who sagged against the leather upholstery of the cab, turned an inquiring eye upon the lean and wiry man at his side. The two wrists, handcuffed together, lay upon the seat between them.

Inspector Parker vouchsafed no reply. The cab was passing Westminster Abbey. When they came upon the Embankment the traffic thinned because of the wide road and the cab gathered speed. The policeman sat up stiffly. His mind was far away, rehearsing just exactly what he was going to to say to Superintendent Wetherby. The job had been so simple that it was going to be difficult to introduce any element of self-congratulation.

He was still pondering on the problem when something occurred which materially altered the whole course of Inspector Parker’s career.

A large moving-van stood by the side of the road, its doors gaping and its drawbridge apron down. It was growing dusk and, save for a bus and a few other taxis, there was very little traffic. The inspector was gazing through the glass, when the utterly incredible occurred. The cab driver slowed down, dropped into low gear, and, crouching over his wheel, suddenly swerved and charged straight at the back of the van.

There was a jolt as the front wheels hit the bottom of the apron, the engine roared as the cab took the strain, and the next minute they were plunged into darkness as they entered the van. The doors clanged to behind them and a figure swayed through the window towards them in the darkness and something hard and circular was pressed into his ribs.

“Sit still!”

The strange voice was calm, almost conversational. “Don’t start yelling or I’ll fire.”

The inspector jerked the wrist of his prisoner. “I suppose you think you’re very clever, Thurtle,” he said. “But this will mean another ten years on your sentence.”

“I don’t understand.” The man’s voice was genuinely afraid. “I can’t move myself.”

It was at this point that the inspector realised that a second assailant was leaning through the other window of the cab. Meanwhile, the van had begun to move. He could feel its wheels beneath him. The whole plot had been worked so smoothly and neady that it was unlikely that anyone witnessing the incident would have guessed that anything was seriously wrong.

It took Inspector Parker some moments to grasp the enormity of the situation. Then he became angry. Only the gun muzzle in his ribs prevented him from becoming violent. He was not a timid man, however, and he leaned back against the cushions with at least a show of ease.

“I suppose you realise the penalties for this sort of thing?” he remarked.

The owner of the gun in his ribs laughed.

“The trouble with you cops is that you believe you’re invulnerable,” he said. “You shouldn’t have handcuffed yourself to your prisoner. As it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to come the whole way. And something tells me, Inspector Parker’—the voice was soft, almost caressing—’something tells me that you’re going to find that very unhealthy indeed.”

“I don’t know who you are,” said another voice out of the darkness, which the inspector recognised as his prisoner’s, “but you are doing me a great disservice. Why don’t you let this man arrest me in peace?”

Once again the soft, explosive laugh, which was beginning to grate on the inspector, sounded in his ear.

“Good heavens!” the second man said. “What do you think we are? A charity organisation? If you’ve come from the States, Mr. Thurtle, you ought to know you’ve been hijacked. Perhaps you’d like me to translate for you, inspector? You’re one firm, as it were, Mr. Thurtle is another. And the bright lads who are taking you on this joy ride represent a third party who happens to be interested. Have you got that clear?”

The van swerved round a corner and in its depths Inspector Parker leaned back, the gun still in his ribs as he cursed beneath his breath.

At police headquarters Chief Detective Inspector Guthrie of C Division was talking to one of his more promising young men. “Well, Fisher, we’ve found the taxi. Fortunately, Murdoch was able to identify the number. And we’ve found the moving-van. But the men, Thurtle, and Parker have vanished. This is a serious business for us. When a world-famous financier is arrested by a Yard inspector on Victoria station, and they both disappear, together with the taxi in which they are riding; that makes for newspaper crusades and questions in Parliament.”

The young man at the desk looked up from the plan which almost covered it. He was a big fair-haired officer with sharp grey eyes.

The Chief Detective Inspector continued: “That WX-Fifteen district, where we found the cab, is a vortex—a thieves’ vortex. They just stand there and it swallows them up. It has happened time and again; only unlike a vortex they come up again—somewhere else.”

He walked across the room and stood looking over Fisher’s shoulder.

“There you are!” he said, running his finger round an area marked in red on the large-scale plan. “Here’s Perry Street, Perry Square, Winton Street and Winton Mews and surrounding them Oxford Street, Tottenham Court Road, Charlotte Street, Goodge Street. Then in the centre is this interesting little patch, apparently as innocent as the Bank of England—and yet that is the spot. If a villain gets there he can disappear.”

Fisher passed his fingers through his fair hair. “I’d just like to make sure, sir, exactly what has been done already.”

“Everything is in the file. You’ll find all action undertaken during the last nine months there but I’ll give you a brief resume myself. I first noticed something odd about this particular district a little under a year ago. A jeweller’s shop was broken into in Oxford Street. To all appearances it was an ordinary smash and grab carried out with clever team work. The two fellows who took most of the valuables went off in a car and were chased. They turned down St. Francis Passage and got into Tottenham Court Road.”

Guthrie paused. ‘The odd thing was, Fisher, that the raid was staged at night. We had a cordon right round the district looking for the Hendridge kidnappers. It was in the small hours and every car was stopped. The district was alive with police. These smash and grab raiders were seen to abandon their car at the corner of Goodge Street and turn into Perry Square. From that point they disappeared.

“Now that, I expect, is not a very extraordinary story to you, and it wasn’t to me at the time. I thought it was poor police work and that our men had not been as smart as they might have been.

“But that was only the beginning. Since then, a peculiarly clever brand of organised crime in the West End has been on the increase. The villains have always used this method of escape, and the procession of incidents connected with this area came to the fore again last night with this kidnapping.

‘That district has got to be laid open. The rat hole must be plugged. Now I want results. That is why you are handling the case. Take my advice and pin your faith to the WX-Fifteen district. That’s where the solution of this mystery lies. We cannot surround this area and the crooks know we cannot.”

Bob Fisher bent over the plan. “As I see it, sir,” he ventured, “Winton Mews, where the cab and moving-van were found, seems to be the centre of interest. Both vehicles were stolen early yesterday morning. It’s rather strange that the mews was built in the middle of a block like that, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. The two sides that face on to the square are modern. They are made up of flats and tailors’ workrooms. The other two sides are older and consist of the original houses to which the mews used to belong. Some of these have shops on the ground floor. Then just across the road there’s a block of luxury flats called Southwold Mansions and beside them is a yard leading to a warehouse.”

He bent over the other’s shoulder and indicated on the plan the buildings he mentioned.

Fisher nodded comprehendingly. “And all these places have been searched?”

“Searched!” Guthrie threw out his hand in an expressive gesture. “Ask Ames if you want to hear about that. Here is some more background. This is Joe’s cafe. He’s a very honest fellow, reputed to put pea flour in the coffee. That is all that is known against him. Next there is the laundrette. Man and his wife run it. They let lodgings. We know all about them. The cigarette shop next door is clean; so is the music shop, and the sandwich bar has nothing to hide. Now we come to the mews itself. Most of the garages are used by private owners, all respectable. We’ve gone over them. There isn’t even a cellar under most of them.

“Only two are used as dwellings. This one here is a store room for the laundrette. The husband and wife sleep above. There’s nothing there. Next door, of course, is old Mrs. Wheeler. She’s a fine old London character. She says she is a hundred and five next birthday. Bedridden, you know, and lives all alone except for welfare folk who hover around her and the tourists who come and have a look at her. We thought at one time that she might have done a little fortune-telling but nothing more sinister.”

Fisher nodded.

“What’s underneath this district?”

“There’s the Underground, the Forty-Y sewer and the old Post Office tube now used by the Westbridge Stores to join its two branches for parcels delivery, so they can avoid the traffic from the Oxford Circus shop. There is no entrance, as far as we can see, to any of these underground ways from the WX-Fifteen district. But your first task is to recapture Thurtle. I don’t think his friends are in it, by the way. I think it is private enterprise on the part of some other villains. Parker must be rescued and you must lay your hands upon the man who is organising this district—the man with the brains and the escape system.”

The phone rang and the older man picked it up.

“This is for you, Fisher,” he said. “Sounds like a private call.”

Fisher took the call with a feeling of embarrassment.

“Bob, is that you at last? Look here, I’m in a flat—a furnished flat. I’ve taken it—not pinched it, you know, rented it. It’s for my aunt, as a matter of fact. She’s coming to town tomorrow and I don’t think it’ll suit her. You must come here and have a look at it, and I think you’ll agree with me.”

In spite of his exasperation, Fisher smiled. The request was typical of George Box, that idle soul whom he had met on holiday earlier in the year, and whom he had bumped into several times since in the West End.

“Look here,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can’t manage it. I’m frightfully busy. Yes, busy. I can’t talk now, either.”

“But, Bob, I say!” The tone was aggrieved. “I’m putting something in your way. This is important. You come along. You’ll regret it all your life if you don’t. Listen, Bob!” The voice was lowered mysteriously. “I can’t say much over the phone, but I believe you’ll find this a very interesting place.”

Fisher caught a fleeting glimpse of Guthrie’s irritated expression, and he spoke severely into the mouthpiece.

“I’m sorry, Box, I’m busy,” he said. “If you’ll give me the address I’ll see what I can do later.” He pulled a scribbling pad towards him. “Hello, yes—3-A Southwold Mansions, Perry Street.”

He stood staring at the address he had scribbled down and then turned and spoke into the phone with considerably more interest than before.

“Did you say Southwold?”

“Yes—Southwold Mansions. You come along!”

“Right. I will. Goodbye!”

Fisher put down the receiver to find Guthrie looking at him.

“That’s a queer coincidence,” he said.

“Very odd,” agreed Fisher.

“Is your friend wealthy?” the older man said. ‘Those are expensive flats. Dacre, the actor, has one. A surgeon lives on the first floor, and there’s a stockbroker above him.”

Fisher smiled.

“Box has taken it for his aunt. I believe she’s quite wealthy. I think I may drop in there tonight.”

“I think it would be wise,” Guthrie agreed. “Eh, Davidson? What’s the matter?”

The lugubrious man who had just entered said bluntly, “Inspector Parker’s been found, sir. He was discovered by a nature class with the back of his head blown out. The local police have got rid of the children but they’re holding the boy who tripped over the body until we arrive. It is thought Parker was dumped from a car, the tracks are plain and they’ve followed them on to the main road where there’s a lay-by. So far there is no trace of Thurtle.”

Chief Detective Guthrie sucked air through his clenched teeth.

“Murder, and one of our own men,” he said grimly. “Get on to it, you two. It’s arrests I want and quickly. Fisher, you can have Davidson for twenty-four hours after which time I want him back here.”

As the two men closed their Chief’s door behind them Davidson allowed himself an epitaph for his deceased colleague: “Poor old Parker. He’ll never undertip another taxi man!”

Inspectors Davidson and Fisher had just come in from a search of that part of the forest where the body had been found. Their task had been fruitless and, a little dejected, they had retired to the police station to examine the clothes.

“Everything that was taken from the pockets is on this table,” the local inspector said.

Fisher stood looking at the usual collection of articles which Inspector Parker had been wont to carry about with him—his watch, a nail file, wallet, several odd pencils and a bunch of keys.

Davidson sighed. “Nothing to help us among those,” he said gloomily. “Let’s look over the clothes.”

Together they examined the crumpled, bloodstained garments which had once clothed the perky, conceited inspector. It was a melancholy business. Although Fisher had attended to such a task many times in his career, he could never rid himself of a sense of distaste for the job. Suddenly an exclamation escaped him and Davidson and the local inspector glanced up. Fisher stood holding a scrap of dirty paper which he had extracted from Parker’s left shoe. He spread it out on the table and they bent over it together.

The discovery was about three inches square, muddy and clearly marked with the imprint of a heel. It was evidently a page torn from a pad of forms. There was a single line of printing below the perforated edge. “Hotel Formby”, it ran. “To be retained by owner.” Scribbled beneath were the figures “178”.

Davidson frowned and the local inspector looked puzzled.

“What do you make of that, Fisher?” Davidson spoke quietly. “In his shoe, was it? What is it? Some hotel shoe-cleaning arrangement?”

Fisher shook his head.

“I don’t think so. Why ‘to be retained by owner”? Have you ever stayed at a hotel where they gave you a receipt for your shoes?”

Davidson rubbed his chin. “That’s true. What do you make of it?”

Fisher answered. “I assume that it didn’t get into the shoe by mistake. Someone must have put it there deliberately, probably Parker. The theory I’m inclined to favour is that Parker was imprisoned somewhere, looked round for something which might give him a clue to his whereabouts, and picked up this off the floor. Don’t forget the muddy heel mark. Therefore I think our next step is the Hotel Formby. You know the place, don’t you? It’s in the Euston Road—a respectable establishment.”

Further examination of the dead man’s belongings proving unproductive, the two Yard men left. As they went Davidson reviewed the facts of the case.

“Well,” he said. “I think it’s clear that Parker was shot before they got him out to the forest.”

“I don’t think he was shot in cold blood,” said Fisher, his eyes on the road.

“You mean the angle of the bullet? Yes, I think perhaps you’re right. He was shot from a distance. Probably he was trying to make a getaway, poor chap.”

The manager of the hotel received them not without some trepidation. He was a plump man, over middle age, with quick dark eyes and a small black imperial beard. The arrival of the two policemen in his well-run establishment was an unprecedented event, and he eyed them nervously. When they were seated in his office, Fisher drew out his notecase and, extracting the grubby scrap of paper, handed it to the manager.

“I wondered if you could tell me what that is, Mr. Weller?”

The fastidious man picked up the paper between a thumb and forefinger. At first he seemed inclined to doubt if such a disreputable item could ever have had anything to do with the elegant Hotel Formby, but upon examination a frown spread over his forehead.

“Why, yes,” he said. There’s nothing extraordinary about this—or at least I hope not.”

He shot an inquiring glance at the two inspectors, who remained completely wooden-faced and uncommunicative, waiting for him to continue.

“Oh, yes, it’s quite simple,” he said. “You see, we are rather cramped for space here; we have no garage belonging to the hotel. So in order to accommodate our guests, we have an arrangement with a big garage down the road whereby clients can leave their cars, but the charge is put through us and goes down on their bills in the ordinary way.

“Sometimes, when the garage is overcrowded, we patronise two or three other smaller establishments in the vicinity, and when this is done we make a practice of giving the owner of the car a slip like this. The duplicate half is handed in to the garage. Without this ticket, no one can obtain his car.”

“I see. Then this is a garage ticket?”

Mr. Weller deigned to glance at the offending paper once again. “Exactly,” he said. “A garage ticket belonging to a client who occupied room One-Seventy-Eight.”

A smile which he could only just hide flickered for an instant across Fisher’s face as he shot a covert glance at his companion. Inspector Davidson grinned openly.

“Would it be possible to find out exactly who was the owner of this slip?” Fisher asked. “This is an original, isn’t it? Probably you have the carbon still in your pad.”

With an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, the manager of the Hotel Formby pressed a bell and summoned his secretary. In a few moments the pad lay on the table in front of the detectives. Fisher turned over the leaves and a grunt of satisfaction escaped him.

“Here we are,” he said. “Yes, this is it. And there’s a date, too—February the twelfth. Now, Mr. Weller, who occupied room One-Seventy-Eight on that date?”

The desk clerk was called and he came immediately, a pale, fair young man carrying a register. The identity of the owner of the garage ticket was revealed.

“Mr. Richard Holt,” said the booking clerk. “He’s one of our oldest and most regular customers.”

“I’ve known Mr. Holt for years,” said the manager. “He’s a manufacturer in Walsall and always stays here on his trips to London.”

“I’m afraid we must ask you for his address,” said Fisher. He turned to the clerk. “Do you know anything about this ticket?”

The young man examined the slip with more interest than his employer had done.

“Yes, I think I do,” he said. “I remember Mr. Holt coming to me for garage accommodation rather late one evening. I phoned up our usual garage just down the road, but they were full up. I remember I had to make other arrangements for him.”

Fisher was pleased. Here at last was a witness who had a good memory and showed a genuine desire to be helpful. “Can you tell me the name of the garage where the car was left?”

“I’m not sure. It must have been one of three. We have a resident chauffeur who fetches the cars from the garages for their owners. He might remember.”

There was a pause while the man was summoned, and Fisher took advantage of it to get Mr. Richard Holt’s home address. The chauffeur was a harassed, plainly overworked individual who, besides driving the customers’ cars, had the thankless task of odd-job man at the Hotel Formby. He did, however, remember Mr. Holt’s car.

“It was a Sunbeam Rapier,” he said. “Not a new model. I put it in one of the three garages we use when the big one is full, but I couldn’t say which now. I was very rushed, and it is some time ago. They’d probably know there, though.”

“I’ll give you the addresses,” said the desk clerk helpfully and while he jotted them down the manager turned to Fisher with an appeal.

“Naturally, I don’t know what business you are on, Inspector,” he said, “but Mr. Holt is a very old client of ours, and you understand that I was naturally loath to give you his address. If it would be possible for you to—er—discover what you have to without referring to me, I should be tremendously obliged.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We don’t say more than we have to.”

A moment later they stood on the pavement and Fisher ran his eye down the list of garages.

“Burdiell’s Garage, Albany Street; the Fairlop, Fitzroy Street; and Knapp’s, Grafton Street. That’s interesting, Davidson.”

“Grafton Street?”

They climbed into the car and Fisher, turning on the dashboard light, drew a roughly-made plan from his coat pocket.

“Look here,” he said. “This is the diagram of the underground ways in the WX-Fifteen district. Here’s the Forty-Y sewer, here’s the railway, and here is the old post office tube now used by the stores. See what I mean? This tube runs right through this area, and comes out at Westbridge’s other store in the Tottenham Court Road. On its way it runs beneath Grafton Street. I wonder. Anyway, let us go there first.”

Knapp’s garage was an old stable, approached by a narrow brick way between an antique shop and the branch office of the electricity board. It looked uninviting, dark and none too prosperous. As they turned into the half-empty building a disreputable figure came out to meet diem. He was small, rat-faced, and clad in garments which appeared to have been soaked in oil for many years. His one concession to smartness was a huge flat cap which he wore at a rakish angle.

“I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

“I am the manager. And the proprietor, too. There’s me name over the door—Thomas Knapp—and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Remarkable,” said Fisher affably. “Well, Mr. Knapp, I am Inspector Fisher and this is Inspector Davidson.”

“I knew that before you told me,” said Mr. Knapp. “I didn’t think you was in fancy dress.”

Fisher ignored the dig and went on.

“You sometimes garage cars for the Formby Hotel?”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, I hope. Seems quite a nice hotel. The Formby’s a place I wouldn’t mind stayin’ at meself.”

Fisher drew the ticket from his pocket and showed it, without, however, allowing it to leave his hand. “Ever seen that before?”

Mr. Knapp sniffed noisily. “Might “ave,” he said non-committally. “It’s the sort of thing anybody might “ave seen before.”

“Well, do you recognise what it is?”

“Yus,” said Mr. Knapp, after a pause which might have been the result of tremendous mental concentration on his part or mere caution. “It’s a ticket from the Formby for boarding a car.”

“That’s right. Well, this ticket was given up in exchange for a Sunbeam Rapier on February the twelfth last. Wilkinson, the chauffeur of the Formby, thinks he may have brought it here.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Knapp.

“Well, did he?” asked Davidson. “Did you house a Sunbeam Rapier from the Formby on the night of February the twelfth? And is that the ticket which was given up in exchange for the car?”

“Might “ave been.” There was no way of telling from the expression on Mr. Knapp’s unlovely face whether he was telling all he knew or whether the subject had ceased to interest him.

“Better have a good think, my lad,” Fisher spoke sharply. “This is important. You know who we are. We don’t come round asking questions simply for fun.”

“Really,” said Mr. Knapp with contempt. “Well, I’ll have to think then, won’t I?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

The two detectives waited while Mr. Knapp performed this unusual feat. “No,” he said at last “No, I don’t think I did. I wouldn’t be sure, of course, but I don’t think I did.”

Fisher’s eyes narrowed.

“The car hasn’t been stolen,” he said. ‘There’s no complaint about it. If it was here you needn’t be afraid to say so.”

“Well, that’s a nice thing to suggest!” said Mr. Knapp with indignation. “I’m doin’ my best to ’elp you, aren’t I? I say I don’t think it was ’ere.”

“Don’t you keep any records? How do you know what to charge the Formby?”

“I don’t run up any accounts. It’s cash on the nail. Course I keep records, flippin’ tax men nosing about. I jots down the numbers of cars I puts up for the night and if the perishers gives me a piece of paper I gives it back again when they collect the car. All nice and tidy like.”

Fisher did not speak immediately. His eyes were taking in every detail of the draughty garage, and he had just caught sight of something lying among the litter which strewed the unswept floor. He bent down and picked it up. It was another ticket similar, save for the number, to the one he held. Mr. Knapp grinned but there was a shifty expression in his crafty eyes.

“Lookin’ for clues?” he inquired.

Fisher showed the piece of paper to Davidson. “As you say,” he said turning to Knapp, “all nice and tidy. Do you always keep your receipts on the floor?”

“I can’t waste my time tidyin’ up after customers,” said Mr. Knapp. “When a man gives me a receipt for a car “e brought in the night before I let “im “ave it. And if the receipt falls on the floor I let it stay there. I don’t spend me life cleanin’ up.”

“So I see,” said Fisher.

Mr. Knapp hesitated. “Since you’re so interested in me business, would you like to “ave a look round?” he suggested. “I’ve got a nice little place “ere. I know you like to nose round a bit.”

He led them into the office at the back of the garage and into the small yard behind. The whole place was very untidy and dirty but although both the Yard men were on the alert, they saw nothing unexpected or unusual. There was a car pit with a truck standing over it. Fisher looked inside the vehicle, but it was empty.

“Me and me mother lives in the attic above,” volunteered Mr. Knapp confidentially. “I don’t keep any pets and I’m fully insured in case of fire. Anything else you’d like to know while you’re about it? Just ask. Don’t mind me.”

“Any cellars?”

Mr. Knapp, who had turned aside to look at a pressure-gauge on a tyre, bent a little lower over the disc, but when he spoke his voice was as perky as ever. “No,” he said. “Nothing but drains and they’re not too good. Would you like to have a look at the family album?”

Fisher grinned. “We’ve got it all at the Yard, I expect,” he said, and nodding to the man the two detectives went out to their car.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Davidson. ‘That man’s got a record, no doubt, but I couldn’t see anything out of order.”

“I don’t know,” said Fisher slowly. “Garages are such useful places for crooks. It’s near the right area, too. I think I’ll have it watched.”

Burchell’s garage and the Fairlop both proved to be establishments in the charge of efficient ex-Service men who kept careful records of every car received from the Formby. They were positive that no Sunbeam Rapier had been housed by them on the night of February the twelfth.

“That brings us back to Mr. Knapp,” said Davidson. “Perhaps Thurtle shot Parker?”

Fisher shook his head. “Not on your life,” he said. “There’s a very different man behind all this. Thurtle’s a swindler; he took a big risk and came an almighty cropper but this fellow takes risks all the time.”

It was after midnight when Fisher at last found the time to present himself before the door of 3-A Southwold Mansions. The lights in the neat, well-kept hall were lowered to half strength, but the bright green door looked expensive and inviting.

In response to his ring, the door was opened and Box’s pink face appeared.

“So, you’ve come at last, have you?” he said. “Come in. I was beginning to be afraid you’d backed out. Come in and have a drink.”

He was in pyjamas and dressing gown of many colours which blended in with his bright yellow hair. Fisher followed him into the main room of the suite. It was a big, ornate apartment, expensively furnished and comfortable. Box went over to a side table and mixed a drink for himself and his visitor, talking the whole time.

“I was afraid you hadn’t taken me seriously. I had great difficulty in getting on to you at that place. You policemen always ought to be on the alert, you know—always eager to pick up a crumb or two of information which might lead you to big things. Have a cigarette? That box is full of them. The man I rented this flat from seemed to want to make me comfortable. He’s left the whole place in running order.”

Fisher walked over to the window and, sweeping aside the heavy lined curtains, stood looking down. Perry Street, with its sinister yard, lay directly beneath him. Opposite was the narrow alley which led into Winton Square, with its small shops, unsavoury mews, and curious reputation. Really, the view of WX-15 from the window at which he stood was extraordinarily complete. He was interrupted in his thoughts by Box, who thrust a glass into his hand.

“Well, what do you think of the flat?” he asked. “It looks all right at first glance, doesn’t it? If you were looking for a furnished flat for your aunt, wouldn’t you say it was the very place?”

Fisher, whose only aunt was an impecunious and elderly spinster with strong teetotal convictions, grinned.

“I might,” he conceded. “But seriously, George, if you’ve brought me up here to congratulate you on your house hunting, you haven’t been very intelligent.”

“Oh, but wait. I’m giving you a drink to brace you up.” Box’s round face was momentarily serious. “There’s more to come. First of all, suppose you step in here?”

He led Fisher into an adjoining bedroom. It seemed an ordinary room, a little too elaborate for Fisher’s own taste, but otherwise perfectly normal. Box was quivering with excitement, however.

‘When I changed tonight, I dropped a cuff-link,” he said. “I was crawling about on the floor looking for it when I discovered this. Rather queer, isn’t it?”

He pushed the bed aside and pointed to a ring set in the floor.

“Now look,” he commanded. He pulled it up and revealed a small square hole in the floor which contained, to Fisher’s astonishment, three revolvers. Box rose to his feet.

“There you are,” he said. “That’s the first exhibit. Apparently my landlord likes to be ready for burglars. At the first alarm he can hop out of bed and go to meet them, a gun in each hand and one in his teeth. An impressive first appearance, I should think.”

Fisher shrugged his shoulders but his eyes were grave.

“Maybe just an idiosyncrasy,” he said. “It certainly seems odd to leave them in a furnished flat.”

“Odd?” said his host. “It’s odd all right. You wait. Our next port of call is the kitchen. Here we have a service lift.”

The blue-tiled kitchenette had a wedge-shaped shaft built in across one corner, and in it was a small lift worked by ropes and unusually solid for such a contraption.

“This takes you right down to the back yard of the block,” Box said. “Interesting, isn’t it? It goes through the flat below, of course, but it doesn’t have an outlet there.”

“How do you know?” Fisher inquired.

“Because I’ve been to see. I’ve ridden up and down in that thing twice. You’ll find it more difficult because you haven’t got my elegant proportions, but I did it quite easily. Look!”

He climbed into the hatch and sat there cross-legged, smiling out at his visitor. “There you are,” he said. ‘These ropes work at a touch.”

He grasped the rope at his side and moved himself up and down a few feet either way with ease. “That isn’t all,” he went on hastily, “see this?”

He stretched out his hand and touched a switch on the inside of the panelling of the lift shaft. Instantly they were in darkness.

“See that?” Box’s voice was triumphant. ‘That turns out every light in the flat. And what’s more, you can’t turn them on again until this has been readjusted. You try!”

Using his torch, Fisher made the experiment. It was not until the switch had been put back that the flat was once more lit.

“Well, you’re glad you came along, aren’t you?” asked Box.

Fisher smiled.

“I am, certainly. You must have had a joyous evening playing with these gadgets. Any more?”

“Only one thing I know of.” Box was as pleased as a child with a new toy. “Come and stand in the sitting-room.”

They went back to the room Fisher had first seen, and Box indicated the fireplace. This was an over-decorated affair. The over mantle rose up to the ceiling and was made of lacquered wood ornamented with an inlay of mother-of-pearl in the form of a cherry branch in full blossom. The fireplace itself was set farther back in the wall, and there were small inglenooks built in on either side.

“What do you think of that?” Box demanded.

“Hideous,” said Fisher frankly. “That decoration doesn’t go with that design.”

Box grinned. “Well, you stand and watch it, that’s all.”

He went out of the room, leaving the door open, and from where Fisher stood he could see his dressing-gowned figure pass down the corridor and unlock the front door, through which he disappeared.

“Now,” said his exuberant voice. “See the fireplace?”

Fisher glanced up. Each mother-of-pearl bud and flower was glowing with a ruby light. The effect was pleasant and somehow startling.

Box came back highly delighted.

“Did you notice it? Rather natty, isn’t it? I saw it first when the man came to read the meter. It works very simply. Anybody standing on the doormat forms a contact which produces the illumination. Rather a jolly little flat, isn’t it? Just the place for auntie.”

Fisher sat down in one of the deep armchairs before the fireplace.

“Look here, Box,” he said. “How did you get hold of this place? How long have you been here?”

“I moved in about four o’clock this afternoon and I took the flat off a most respectable agent at eleven o’clock this morning. Apparently his client has gone abroad on a film contract. He’s an actor. I forget the name. He left very suddenly and just threw the keys in at the agents and told them to let it. It’s very cheap considering, and I snapped it up. Of course, I don’t know if I should have been so certain it was just what auntie wanted if I’d noticed all the parlour tricks, but I didn’t spot them until this evening. I rang up the agent but he’d packed up for the night. Then, of course, I just had to have someone in to see my display, so I got on to you. Would you like a history of my life now? Or perhaps, if we could think of a crowd we could ring up, we might throw a party. There must be a few people we know who haven’t gone to bed yet.”

Fisher did not respond immediately. His mind was taken up with the strange disclosures he had just seen. Of course, there was just a chance that these elaborate signals and precautions were the property of a burglar-shy householder, alarmed by the recent increase in crime, but it hardly seemed likely.

Box broke into his thoughts.

“There’s another bedroom over there you can have,” he said. “Or don’t the police ever sleep? I’m not a nervous man, you know, but there’s something about this place that gives me the creeps. Do you notice it? There’s a sort of—how shall I say?—expectant atmosphere about. Something most extraordinary.”

Fisher did not answer. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that instant there came an interruption so remarkable that it brought both young men to their feet. A prickly sensation ran down Fisher’s spine.

From the fireplace someone had spoken. The voice had the curious metallic, yet hollow quality of a bad loudspeaker.

“Put out the lights,” it said. “Put out the lights. We’re coming up!”

As Fisher stood there wrestling with his surprise the voice came again. “Put out the lights. We’re coming up!”

Fisher was the first to pull himself together. He sprang forward into the wide, open fireplace and peered under the mantle. The explanation was instantly apparent. It was a loudspeaker. This then, was yet another of the many curious devices hidden in the flat. Even as he watched the disc it spoke again.

“Put out the lights. Hurry!”

Motioning Box to follow him, Fisher darted into the kitchen and pressed back the master switch. He had no doubt that there must be another such device more conveniently placed in the flat, but now was not the time to search for it. Then, keeping Box behind him, Fisher crept back to the main room. As they stood waiting in the darkness they could hear a little traffic in the street outside but otherwise there was not a sound. The flat seemed to be holding its breath.

Suddenly Box gripped the detective’s arm and Fisher, who had his eyes fixed on the spot where he guessed the doorway must be, caught sight of the cherry branch picked out in crimson lights on the mantel. The warning was dramatic. Someone stood outside the green front door.

After what seemed like a full minute there was a faint click down the passage, followed by a rustling. Fisher laid a restraining hand on Box’s arm. He was sufficiently experienced not to go leaping into a fight without first discovering the odds against him.

The silence was nerve-racking. The darkness seemed full of strange forms, there was no sound, no breath to tell them whether they were alone or not.

It was the crimson warning over the fireplace flashing out once again which was the first real indication that their visitors were leaving. Three times the lights flashed and then all was darkness.

Fisher pulled out his torch and swept it round the room. Nothing had been disturbed. They appeared to be alone. Box stepped back into the kitchen and a second later the lights were on again.

It was Fisher who first caught sight of the object down the end of the corridor just inside the front door. With a smothered exclamation he darted forward, Box at his heels. When they were within six paces of it, they pulled up short, and the two young men stood staring at this newest and most remarkable surprise the flat had to offer.

Half lying, half seated upon a heavy hall chair, her head thrown back, her eyes closed and her slim hands and ankles bound with cord, reclined a girl.

Fisher bent over her. “Good heavens!” he said. “Whatever next! Look here, you go and get her some water while I untie her.”

He turned his head as he spoke, and just for an instant he saw an expression on the other man’s face. Fisher only caught a fleeting impression and in a moment it had passed from his mind as Box’s face regained its normal colour and blissful appearance.

“Oh, yes. Yes, quite. I think that’s a good idea. Should it be brandy? No, perhaps not. What a funny flat. I must tell the man tomorrow it won’t suit auntie. Strange women popping in like this. She doesn’t consider herself old-fashioned, but she wouldn’t like it. She’s funny that way.”

He trotted off to the kitchen while Fisher unbound the cord which fastened the girl’s wrists and ankles. She was beautiful. Her long red-brown hair flowed against her soft white skin, and her heavy dark lashes enhanced her pallor. Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at him. Her first expression was one of surprise, which quickly turned to terror.

Before Fisher could speak, Box’s inconsequential voice echoed from the kitchenette.

“Here, I say, Bob, half a minute! Come. Come at once, will you?”

There was an urgent note in the tone and Fisher turned instinctively. He found Box hanging over the lift.

“Listen,” Box said. “Can you hear something?”

Fisher bent over the shaft.

“There’s nothing there,” he said at length. “What did you think you heard?”

“Someone screamed.” Box had lowered his voice and the effect was somewhat ludicrous. Fisher was inclined to be irritated. He took a glass from the shelf and filled it from under the tap.

“Come on,” he said. “Don’t forget the girl. She can probably put us wise to the whole thing.”

As he entered the passage he heard a sound which brought a curse to his lips. As soon as he came in sight of that empty chair he knew what had happened. The cords which had bound her lay on the floor and the front door hung wide. The girl was gone.

Fisher turned round and thrust the glass into Box’s hand.

“Here, take this,” he commanded.

“I say, where are you going? Wait for me!”

Fisher glanced at him over his shoulder as he reached the door. “I may just catch her. See you later.”

Box followed him to the doorway and then he frowned and, coming back slowly into the flat, shut the hall door behind him. For a moment he stood hesitating. Then he shrugged his shoulders and, placing the glass of water on the hall table, went back into the bedroom and began to dress with speed.

When he came out of the room, although his bland face was still good humoured a subtle difference had come over the expression in his eyes. They were no longer frank. Instead a purposeful look lingered in their depths. He went round the flat, turning out the lights, and then made his way to the kitchenette. He entered the lift with the air of one long accustomed to do so, and lowered himself swiftly into the yard below.

The dark coat which covered his trim form rendered him inconspicuous. He stood for a moment looking about him. Then, convinced that he was unobserved, he sent the lift back into position. Pulling his hat down over his eyes he stepped across the concrete and entered what appeared to be an area leading to a coal cellar.

The place was empty. It had been built in the days when the block of flats was a private house. The man seemed to know his way, for he used no torch and there were no street lights. He crept softly round the wall, and finally, discovering the door he sought, passed through it into yet another cellar.

He came out of this into an area precisely similar to the one by which he had entered. He stepped up into the street in a narrow turning on the opposite side of the road from the block of flats.

He stood listening but there were no unusual sounds above the hum of the traffic. Presently he set off down the pavement and turned into Winton Mews.

The narrow, unsavoury court was quiet, and no gleam of light showed from the windows above the garage doors. Box stepped forward and, moving up to the third door on the left, knocked twice, once loudly and once softly. Instantly it swung open, and he stepped into the darkness within.

“I wish you’d talk. You get on my nerves sitting there, Fishy Eyes!”

Mr. Knapp stood at the end of the wooden table in the damp, ill-lighted cellar and looked at the man who sat opposite, his head resting upon his clasped hands, a dull expression upon his white face.

Joseph Thurtle had looked weary when he had stepped off the boat train at Victoria a little over twenty-four hours before, but in the interval he had become more haggard and drawn than would have seemed possible. He took no notice of the garage proprietor’s opening gambit, but continued to stare straight in front of him.

“Leave “im alone, Thos, can’t you?” The speaker was a heavily built, red-faced individual, who lay sprawled upon a pile of newspapers spread out on a packing case in the corner of the cellar. “Leave “im to the boss!”

The other two occupants were cutting for coins on yet another box and they nodded their approval. One was a slender, dark young man and the other a splendidly proportioned, hard-bitten-looking giant of a man with three days’ growth of honey-coloured hair on his chin.

Mr. Knapp sniffed and wandered over to join the card players.

“I can’t understand you, Jack,” he said, eyeing the dark young man. ‘You sit here and play with Bill all day long. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“Run away, Thos. You’re interrupting!” Jack Simmons’ voice was unexpectedly well modulated. “Bill and I have done enough work for today. We don’t get our fun as you do, tormenting the prisoner.”

“That’s right.” The man addressed as Bill revealed a guttural Scandinavian accent. “You go and worry Tim.” He indicated the big man in the corner.

“If he comes over here,” said that worthy with sudden violence, “I’ll break his skinny little neck.”

“All right. No offence, I “ope!” Mr. Knapp perched himself on the edge of the table and considered Joseph Thurtle once again.

Suddenly a rumbling roar shook the room in which they sat, but none of the men so much as batted an eyelid. They were used to the tube trains which hurtled past within a few feet of them. Joseph Thurtle stirred wearily where he sat, but the blank helpless look did not vanish from his eyes.

Then there was the sound of an electric bell and the company in the room glanced up. Mr. Knapp slipped off the table and stood. A rough wooden door at the far end of the room swung open and a young man appeared. The collar of his dark coat was turned up and his hat was pulled well down over his eyes. He stood for a moment looking round at them, his plump face bland and inscrutable.

George Box, part-time theatre critic and part-time crook who had as yet escaped the attentions of the police, surveyed his assistants and his prisoner.

“Where’s Casson?” he demanded.

“In the office.” Mr. Knapp indicated a further door on the opposite side of the cellar. “Mr. Levine and Jamieson are there, too.”

Box nodded. The room he entered, although a cellar like the first, presented a very different appearance. Its walls had been painted and a fitted carpet covered the floor. It was also furnished for comfort.

The three men who lounged on the couch before the electric fire were different from their colleagues without. Here was the nucleus of the powerful organisation which caused Scotland Yard so much anxiety. There was Casson, a small wiry man with a toothbrush moustache, Jamieson, a quiet, grey-faced business man and Levine, perhaps the cleverest of the three. He was an elderly dapper Frenchman, irreproachably dressed in the latest fashion.

Box took off his hat and coat and threw them on a chair.

“Really, Casson,” he said mildly, “I wish you wouldn’t leave your lady friends about my flat without warning me. I had a visitor at the time, and it was very awkward. I’ve got nothing against the girl, mind you. It was only the way she intruded. You don’t mind me mentioning it, do you?”

Casson started up in alarm.

“Oh! Who was there? I didn’t know what to do with the girl. I couldn’t very well have her here. The flat seemed the safest place to leave her.”

Box sat down on the arm of the couch.

“Suppose we get this thing straight,” he said, “who on earth is she?”

Casson and Levine exchanged glances. In spite of Box’s light manner there was something sinister in his tone, an implied reproach which they were quick to notice.

“We found her in the tube, hiding. She didn’t give any account of herself, and it occurred to me that she might be dangerous.”

It was Levine who spoke, his slight French accent clipping the words.

Box smiled. “I see. So you tied her up and left her in the flat for me to deal with? I recognised your voice, Casson, over the microphone. I only hope that Inspector Fisher didn’t make a mental note of it also.”

“Inspector Fisher?”

All three men stared at him.

“In the flat? Then he knows?”

“Everything,” said Box complacently. “He’s seen some of the gadgets and was suitably impressed. I admit the sensational appearance of the girl was more than I’d bargained for.”

“But how did he get there? How did he find it?”

“I invited him, and I showed him.” Box’s smile broadened.

Jamieson rose to his feet and peered into the round, smiling face.

“What are you playing at, Box?”

“Sit down. Don’t worry. Let me explain. It occurred to me that the police activities in the WX-Fifteen district are beginning to irritate. Frankly, Jamieson, it is getting too hot. I considered the matter and decided that the best thing to do was to give them something to get their teeth into. I’ve been cultivating Fisher for some time, as you know. He holds the interesting theory that I’m an idle fool.”

Box paused for a moment, smiling, as if pleased by his own cleverness.

‘This is our last job. We want the police fully occupied while we make our various getaways. Since we shall no longer require the fiat I told him I’d rented it for an aunt of mine and that I thought there was something odd about it. At first he wasn’t interested, but when I gave him the address he perked up his ears and came along this evening. I showed him over the place, and was just going to leave him to draw his own conclusion when the girl made her sensational entry. Now, Casson, she got away and Fisher went after her. If he catches her how much will she be able to tell him?”

“Not much,” said Casson quickly. “Fortunately, not much. We didn’t bring her here at all. We blindfolded her in the tube and took her up through the garage. She’d never recognise it again.”

“Who do you think she was? A policewoman?”

“No, I don’t think so. She’s too young for that. I can’t imagine what she was doing.”

Box’s eyes narrowed. “You ought to have found out.”

The other three men were silent, and their leader rose and walked down the room.

“I’ve covered our tracks with regard to the flat. Blakeney put it in the hands of the agent this morning, and I took it out an hour later. If there’s an inquiry in that direction, we’re covered.” He paused. “Now to work, since our friend in the next room has had about twelve hours to think it over, perhaps he may consider our proposition with a little more interest. Suppose we have him in.”

An ugly light came into Jamieson’s eyes.

‘The man’s a fool,” he said. “I’m in favour of using a certain amount of force. You’d almost believe he wants to serve his sentence.”

Box regarded his colleague with mild disapproval.

“My dear fellow, why so crude?” he said. “Do remember we’re business men, even if our methods are a little unorthodox. You keep reverting to the bang-him-on-the-head school of thought, I don’t like it.”

“That’s all very well, Box,” it was Casson who spoke, “but we’ve got the fellow here, and as long as he’s here he is a source of potential danger to us. If he’s discovered, things could be very awkward indeed. Don’t forget Parker!”

A regretful expression spread over Box’s round, friendly face.

“That was a pity. I admit that,” he said. “But the fellow was half out of the garage window. I agree with Bill—it was the only thing he could have done. Besides, he knew too much. Now I think we’ll concentrate on the business in hand. Let’s sit round the table, shall we? Casson, I wonder if you’d mind bringing our obstinate guest in from the other room.”

Box took the head of the table, and Joseph Thurtle sat opposite him. His eyes were heavy, but there was still a sullen expression on his mouth, and his hands were clenched.

The other three men showed their reactions towards the situation in different ways. Jamieson was palpably nervous. The murder of Inspector Parker had shaken him and he was afraid. His fear made him savage, and he glared at their captive as though he could hardly keep his hands off him.

Levine was impassive, save for his bright black eyes which were fixed upon Thurtle’s drawn face. Casson watched Box, grudging admiration in the half smile on his lips. That individual was the only one of the party who seemed completely at ease.

“Well, Mr. Thurtle,” Box said, “you look tired. I do hope you haven’t found your companions in the other room too boring. It is astounding how irritating one’s intellectual inferiors can be if one lives with them. Suppose we take up our conversation where we left it yesterday?”

“I don’t want to treat with you. You can hand me over to the police, if you like. I’m at the end of my tether. I’m done.”

“Well!” continued Box. “And I always thought you were an ambitious man. Come, come Mr. Thurtle! This isn’t the way to behave with friends who have gone to the extent of getting rid of a too-attentive police officer and rescuing you. Suppose we talk business. You have a son in London, Mr. Thurtle.”

For the first time during the conversation a flicker of animation came into the financier’s dull eyes.

“He can’t be here yet,” he said before he could check himself.

Box smiled.

“I’m glad to be able to give you the good news,” he said. “Your son arrived at Southampton on board the Elephantine late last night. Naturally the authorities have no quarrel with him, and apart from a somewhat sketchy surveillance, they’re leaving him alone. I imagine their interest in him would be considerably increased if they realised that he carries half a million about with him—that half million which you, Mr. Thurtle, were clever enough to rescue from the crash.”

‘That’s a lie!”

The man was on his feet now facing his enemies. His eyes were blazing and he had all the dark defiance of an animal at bay in his quivering form.

“Well, well, well, why so defiant? You shouldn’t protest so much. It makes people think. As I was saying before you interrupted me, I’m sure the authorities will be more interested in young Mr. Thurtle when they hear the piece of information I shall be able to give them. In fact, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it didn’t alter their view completely, and if young Mr. Rupert Thurtle were to stand in the dock beside you.”

“But he’s innocent,” the old man persisted. “He didn’t realise what he was doing, and I didn’t enlighten him. The fault is mine—entirely mine—and I’m prepared to pay for it.”

“Well, let’s hope the authorities will take the same view,” said Box pleasantly. “I’ve often found, however,” he went on in a conversational tone, “that’s it’s very difficult indeed to convince them of a thing like that. They’re inclined to be obstinate. Officialdom, you know—the ruin of the country.”

Beads of sweat appeared on the financier’s forehead. “You’re a fiend,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

Jamieson grunted. It was an expression of relief. Box’s smile became, if possible, even more bland than before.

“I must say I prefer you in this kind of mood, Mr. Thurtle,” he said. “It brings out the softer side of your character, if I may say so. Well, now, suppose I outline this simple little proposition to you.

“In the first place, my friends and I are not greedy. We should hate you to think that. We are prepared to go shares with you—equal shares. Write a letter to your son instructing him to pay us half of the money he holds for you and we will release you. We will hand you over to him at any place he cares to name, so long as we are convinced that there is no police trap. Well, now, that’s very fair, isn’t it?”

The financier sat down.

“No!” he said. “I won’t. You can do what you like but I’ll never write that letter.”

Box shrugged his shoulders. “What a pity,” he said. “I can sympathise with you, of course. I can see your point of view and I’m inclined to admire it, but you see how it places me. I am a man of conscience. In fact, my conscience is very strong and very active. In order to chloroform it, shall we say, I require a quarter of a million pounds. If it is not forthcoming, and this confounded conscience of mine remains active, I shall have to go to the authorities in my capacity of a loyal citizen and tell them what I know. Your son is quite young, isn’t he? It seems a pity. Twenty years, or even ten or fifteen, taken out of his life at this time will ruin him completely. What a pity!”

The clenched hands of the man who sat at the other end of the table moved involuntarily, and two bright spots of colour appeared in his ashen cheeks.

“I don’t know who you are but you deserve to be hanged.”

“That’s very uncivil and also you’re behind the times. We don’t hang people in England nowadays. We’re civilised; no eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth stuff. We just shut “em up in a little cell with all mod. cons.,” said Box pleasantly. “Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind going back to the other room now. I must go and see the authorities.”

The older man remained where he was, his face working. At length a cry escaped him and he sprawled forward across the table.

“All right,” he said. “All right. I’m beaten. I’ll do it!”

Uttering a suppressed exclamation of triumph, Jamieson leaned forward across the table, but Box laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

“That’s very wise of you, Mr. Thurtle,” Box said softly. “Very wise indeed. I was only putting my own case to you. My friends have devised other means of persuasion.”

He took a pen from his pocket and handed it politely to the stricken man. Casson brought notepaper and an envelope from a desk in the corner.

“One moment,” Box’s face was very grave. “I should like to point out to you, Mr. Thurtle,” he said, in a voice unlike the bantering tone he had previously used, “that we are not joking. Nor are we fools. Any attempt on your part to double cross us, to drop a concealed hint to your son or to frustrate us in any way and we’ll have our revenge. It is very simple and we shall not hesitate.”

The other man looked up and met his eyes.

“I understand,” he said solemnly. “You and I can take each other’s words. Honour among thieves!” He laughed bitterly on the last words, and while Levine reddened angrily, Box’s smile broadened.

“How true,” he said.

Thurtle wrote swiftly and when he had finished he handed the note to his captor. Box read it through aloud.

“I have been hijacked. I am held here for ransom. For heaven’s sake, obey instructions, since my life depends upon it. Pay up to one half of what you hold. I dare not write any more, but do this for me. Yours, Dad.

“Yes, I think that’ll do.” Box drew a paper from his pocket and put it on the table. “This is a sample of your handwriting,” he said. “I took the precaution of procuring it so that we should not have any hitch at the outset. Yes, that will do. I congratulate you, Mr. Thurtle, on your intelligence.

“Now, since we are partners, as it were, perhaps you would prefer to spend your time in here? It’s warmer and more comfortable. I’m afraid one of us will have to remain with you, but I assure you you will find any of these gentlemen excellent company—quite different from the person Knapp, who, I admit, has all the hallmarks of a social failure.”

He put the two papers carefully in his pocket and went over to the door.

“Bill!” he said, “I’m going out. Just make certain that everything is clear, will you?”

The words died on his lips, for at that moment Mr. Knapp came hurrying into the room.

“I say,” he said. “I thought I’d choked the police off, but there’s a whole group of them round the garage.”

Box thrust out a hand and caught his shoulder.

“What’s this?” he demanded sternly.

As he jerked the man towards him he revealed unexpected strength for one of his stature. Somewhat incoherently, Mr. Knapp poured out the story of Fisher’s visit to the garage.

“Look out, guv’nor,” he concluded. “Your fingers ain’t half bitin’ into my shoulder! What do you think I am? Bloomin’ rat or somethin’?”

“I wouldn’t embarrass you by telling you in front of all these people,” said Box. His usual good humour had vanished and there was an element of anxiety in his voice. “I thought the garage was safe. It’s outside the area, and until now they haven’t had a line on it. They got you on a car ticket from the Formby Hotel, you say? Well, I wonder how that happened?”

He stood thinking for some moments, and then a sudden expression of alarm flickered across his face.

“Parker!” he said. “Parker was in that office alone for about five minutes. Knapp, you ought to clean up that place of yours. Your filthy shed and your disgusting business habits will be the finish of us.” As he flung the man from him he glanced round the group. Their faces were white and there was something very near panic in their eyes.

Box’s nonchalance returned as if by magic.

“If it wasn’t Fisher we might have something to worry about,” he said easily. “But I assure you if you knew the man you wouldn’t be alarmed. He’s harmless, with about as much brains as an overfed Pekingese. Oh, well, we must take to the tube!”

Casson went over to him. “Be careful of the mews exit,” he murmured. ‘There’s a patrol which goes through there every twenty minutes.”

Box nodded. “I just missed it as I came in,” he said. “But don’t worry. I think, in the circumstances, I shall take a trip on our emergency railway. Bill and Knapp can come with me just in case of accidents.”

Casson raised his eyebrows.

“The store?” he said softly. “That’s not very safe, is it?”

Box patted his shoulder.

“My dear chap!” he said. “What an engaging person you are. I don’t know whether it’s occurred to you, but the whole method by which we live is not exactly renowned for safety.”

Casson looked after him as he went through the door. He had a great admiration for Box but there were times when he was afraid.

“Call this a joy ride? It gives me the creeps!”

Mr. Knapp’s unlovely voice was raised in the stuffy gloom. “Just fancy what’d “appen if someone was to set a parcel trolley in motion?” he asked. “It’d come “urtling down “ere like one o’clock and where should we be then, I’d like to know?”

“Safely under it and out of this business for good,” said Box cheerfully.

The three men were walking down the post office tube now used by the two branches of Westbridge’s Department stores. Box went in front with a torch. Mr. Knapp trotted along at his elbow and Bill, the Swede, brought up the rear. They bent low to avoid the overhanging electric cables which propelled the swift parcel trucks from one store to the other.

Here and there along the line there were old “stations” which marked the site of the long disused post offices. Mr. Knapp’s garage was one, and there was another beneath the modern block of Winton Street flats. But these had been long passed by the three men, and they now came to a bend beyond which was the faint light of a single electric bulb.

This was the end of the tube as it was now used—the dispatch department of Westbridge’s Oxford Circus branch.

Box turned off his torch and spoke softly.

“Keep back! There’s an armed watchman on the premises, and it’s most important we shouldn’t get caught tonight.”

“It’s most important we shouldn’t get caught any time, I “ope,” said Mr. Knapp truculently, and he shrank closer to the dusty sides of the tunnel.

The dispatch department was yet another of the old “stations.” A low, concrete platform ran down to the rails, and five or six parcel trucks were drawn up at the far end. The single electric bulb, which was kept alight night and day, glowed over the ghostly and deserted scene.

Motioning to the others to follow him, Box crept forward across the concrete way and tried the doors leading into the back basement of the shop. They were unlocked, since the only approach to them was through the shop’s private tunnel. He passed through silently, Mr. Knapp, sniffing irritatingly, followed him, and Bill, a life preserver clenched in one mighty fist, came last.

Inside, all was pitch dark and uncannily quiet. Box drew out his torch and flashed it round. They were in a large packing cellar, but the doors to the concrete staircase stood open, and they moved towards them.

They climbed up the stair on silent, rubber-shod feet. At the first landing they paused. Had they been attempting a burglary, nothing would have been more simple, but since their intention was merely to get out, the problem was, perversely, more difficult.

The service doors were closed with iron bolts which would make a noise when moved. Moreover, they were probably well-provided with burglar alarms.

Box seemed to have an uncanny gift of finding his way about, however, and he led the others down a corridor, passed great showrooms covered with merchandise under dust-sheet shrouds, and came at last to the thing he sought, a side door into the street.

It was at this moment that Mr. Knapp caught his breath noisily, and Box, glancing over his shoulder, saw the flickering light of a torch coming towards them down the passage. It was the night watchman.

“He’s armed,” Box whispered to Bill. “Attend to him.” Then with all the coolness in the world, he bent over the lock which held the door.

Mr. Knapp who, to do him credit, had more courage than would appear, stepped forward into the passage and tore off down it like a rabbit. The night watchman turned his torch full upon him, and his startled voice shattered the silence.

“Hands up, my lad! You’re covered!”

Mr. Knapp turned at the far end of the cul-de-sac, and the watchman, keeping his torch full upon him, advanced, his gun levelled. He passed within a few feet of Bill. For a second the life preserver hung in the air and then descended with a thud upon a spot just above the man’s left ear. He went down without a groan and lay sprawling upon the ground, his gun and torch flying wide.

Mr. Knapp came back grinning.

Box was still working on the catch which held the door. A new system of locks had recently been installed at Westbridge’s and his task was not as simple as he had hoped.

It was at this moment that the disturbing thing happened. The lights went on all over the building. The effect was terrifying and Box started back from the door with an oath. At first he thought he had disturbed the mechanism of some new burglar alarm, but the next moment he knew he was wrong. He could hear the sound of voices and the tramp of feet.

He swung round on the frightened Knapp and Bill.

“Get back to the tube. Whatever you do, don’t get caught! Go on! Beat it!”

They needed no second bidding, and the Swede lumbered off the way they had come, while Mr. Knapp seemed to have disappeared into the air at the first word of command.

Box himself stepped into one of the deserted showrooms, sprang lightly over a counter, and crouched there. He could hear people moving, and then the gruff voice of a police constable echoed from the passage he had just left.

“Hello, what’s this? Quick! Here’s the watchman laid out!”

There was a trample of feet, a certain amount of confused conversation, and then silence.

Box was no coward but neither was he a fool. He realised that an exhaustive search of the building would now be made. He crept along, keeping his head below the counter, and worked his way to the end of the showroom until there was only six feet of open space between him and the service stairs.

He raised himself cautiously and looked about him. At first he thought no one was in sight, but a slight sound above him made him look up. A narrow balcony ran round the showroom, from which great double doors led into other departments. Two people stood upon this, deep in conversation. Their backs were towards him, and he knew himself to be undiscovered. What did startle him and sent an unaccustomed thrill of alarm through him was that he recognised them.

On the balcony was no other person than Bob Fisher, and beside him was a girl. Even at that distance Box knew her. It was the young woman who had been left bound in his flat less than two hours before. Box crept away making for the tube.

Meanwhile, up on the balcony, Fisher continued his conversation with the girl with the red-gold hair.

“But they were here,” she said excitedly. “There was someone here!”

“That’s all right,” he said. “We’ve got the place surrounded, and if there is still anyone left in the store we shall catch them. It was very lucky I caught up with you in Perry Street, Miss Bellew!”

Jean Bellew looked at him. “I was a fool to run away,” she said, “but I was so scared. The moment I was free I just took to my heels and ran. I didn’t know where I was, and I had only the vaguest idea of how I got there.”

The detective nodded.

“I shall want a complete statement from you,” he remarked. “I think I’ve got the facts fairly clear, but one or two points remain. You work in the dispatch service here, don’t you?”

She nodded assent. “Yes; I’m going all through the business. My father is the manager of this branch.”

“I see. You noticed that someone had been tampering with your delivery trucks?”

She nodded again. “I ought to have told the foreman right away. But I—I didn’t think he’d take it seriously. I thought he would be difficult. Anyway, I decided to make my own investigations. Not a very intelligent thing to do, as it turned out.”

Fisher smiled. “Well, not very wise perhaps when you are dealing with this kind of customer. So you went down the tube alone after closing hours this evening?”

“Yes. I had a torch, and I’m afraid I didn’t think there was anything to worry about except perhaps rats. I seemed to walk for miles. I passed a disused platform and a good deal farther on I came to another. This one was much cleaner than the first, and—well, it looked used. So I climbed off the track to investigate. I went through an archway and found a stone flight of stairs. I went up, feeling that I couldn’t be trespassing since, as far as I knew, the whole line belonged to the stores. Then I saw a door with a crack of light under it.”

She paused and drew in a deep breath.

“I pushed it open and went in. The next thing I knew, someone had thrown a cloth over my head and I was knocked to the ground. Then, with my head still covered, they bound my hands and ankles, and someone picked me up and carried me quite a long way. I struggled to get free, but it was impossible. Finally they put me down on a stone floor and I heard them whispering.”

“When you say ‘them”, how many were there?”

“I don’t know. Three, I imagine, or perhaps four.”

“Men?”

“Yes. I didn’t hear a woman’s voice.”

“Can you remember the voices? Anything they said?”

“They were whispering. I couldn’t catch any words. I was then put in a car and driven through some streets. It was very stuffy and I had difficulty in breathing. I think I must have fainted because I don’t remember any more until I saw you bending over me.”

“Well,” said Fisher, “we’d better have all that written down. You can come back with me now.”

“As you say. But it is very late and I must phone my parents first, as they may be anxious.”

Bob Fisher watched her go off down the balcony, but whatever he was thinking, it was put out of his mind by the arrival of a sergeant.

“Everything’s quiet now, sir. They’ve taken to the tube. As far as we can see nothing has been touched, although of course, we can’t be sure of that until the assistants arrive in the morning. The watchman is coming round nicely. He’s still a bit dizzy. Says he knows there must have been two men but he only saw one. He can’t give a very good description of him but he thinks he’ll be able to remember better when his head clears. I’ve sent a couple of men down the tube. Is that right?”

“No,” said Fisher quickly. “Call them back. I think our best way is to sit tight at the end of the tube, sergeant. If you go down a rat hole, you know, you drive the creatures out the other end; but if you sit quietly at the opening, that’s when you catch your rats. We must concentrate on stopping up the holes.”

The sergeant went off to recall his men and Fisher strolled down to the main hall of the stores to wait for Jean Bellew. He was conscious of a secret glow of exultation. Things were beginning to move.

Casson strode up and down the room, his hands deep in his pockets, a frankly scared expression in his eyes.

“I don’t like it, Box,” he was saying. “It’s dangerous.”

Thurtle had been relegated to the outer room again and Box, Casson and Levine were alone.

Jamieson came in a moment later. His face was very pale.

‘We’re trapped,” he said. “It’s happened at last. I always knew it would some day. The store ends of the tube are filled with police. The garage is watched most carefully, and there are three or four plainclothesmen actually in the mews.” His voice rose angrily. “D’you realise it? We’re caught. They’ll get us.”

Box, perched on the edge of the table, grinned irritatingly at the other man. Two sharp lines of anxiety across his forehead were the only indication of strain which he bore.

‘Don’t get hysterical,” he said lightly. “You haven’t got the build for it, Jamieson. It makes you look foolish. Don’t worry. We’re very comfortable here, aren’t we?”

The other man stared at him.

‘Don’t play the fool, Box,” he said. “This isn’t the time for it. We’re up against something worse than anything we’ve ever tackled before. I tell you we’re trapped!”

“I see no reason for getting excited just because we’ve got a few coppers hanging round the house, as it were.”

Box’s tone was still light, although there was just the faint suggestion of anxiety in his voice.

“Don’t worry,” he repeated. ‘We’ve got out of worse scrapes than this. Besides, you mustn’t forget our guest, the amiable Mr. Thurtle, who is going to pay us so handsomely for his deliverance. It would be a pity to lose our heads just now when everything is going so well.”

“It’s all very well to talk like this.” Levine had broken into the conversation. “I am afraid you are just trying to encourage us, my friend. I am afraid that you, too, are alarmed. After all, you have in your pocket the letter to young Thurtle, but you have not yet been able to deliver it. Isn’t that so?”

There was a suggestion of more colour in Box’s round face at this announcement, but he still seemed at ease.

“Of our exits, it occurs to me that the mews is by far the most convenient,” he observed. “I think I shall go out that way. After all, as you point out, Levine, I really ought to deliver Mr. Thurtle’s message to his son. Yes, I think the mews.”

“But it’s madness!” It was Casson who spoke. “If you are caught, you bring the whole hornet’s nest down upon us.”

Box laughed. “If I’m caught. It’s funny what a difference that one little word makes.”

He walked over to the desk in the corner and, taking a small key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer in its depths. From this hiding place he took three glass globes, resembling golf balls, save that they were lined with a silvery substance. These he placed very carefully in the pocket of his coat. From another drawer he took out a gun, checked it, and slipped it into his hip pocket.

“What are you going to do?” Jamieson’s eyes were fixed upon him questioningly.

It was one of George Box’s foibles that he hardly ever carried a gun, but on the rare occasions when he did so, he seldom came back without using it

“Be careful!” muttered Levine. “Don’t forget Parker. I saw in the evening papers that they’ve found the body.”

“Of course they’ve found the body,” said Box. ‘The police are always finding bodies in Epping Forest. It’s quite the fashionable spot to leave them. I don’t think I shall ask any of you gentlemen to accompany me—you’re too jumpy. I’ll draw my recruits from the other room. I suggest that you sit round the fire and tell one another’s fortunes by cards. You can expect me back in about an hour. By the way, if you hear a certain amount of noise upstairs, don’t be alarmed. There’s nothing whatever to be excited about.”

He went out and the three men in the room exchanged glances.

“He has courage,” said Levine.

“He’s a fool,” said Jamieson.

“He likes to pretend he is a fool,” said Casson. “I wish I had his stupidity.”

Meanwhile, in the outer room, Box had signalled to Simmons and Tim. They got up and followed him without a word. They stepped out of the room and into the dark, damp-smelling passage without.

It was very narrow and scarcely high enough for a man to stand upright. To their left was a flight of steps leading down to the tube, and opposite them a narrow tunnel wound upward.

Keeping his head low, Box advanced cautiously along this opening. It was dark and clammy with damp, but it was evident that they knew the way well, for they hurried along with apparent unconcern. At length the tunnel broadened into a square cavity with a very high roof. In this there was a ladder, stretching up into the gloom above. Box mounted it and they followed.

The top of the ladder rested against a wooden platform built onto the wall like a shelf. Box climbed on to it and his head came to within a few inches of the roof. He knocked upon the boards above very softly and waited. Almost at once the signal was answered. Three gentle thuds, followed by one loud one, sounded from the outside of the partition.

Tim clambered up beside Box and together they thrust back the heavy iron bolts that kept the trapdoor shut, and then let it carefully downwards. There was the sound of something heavy rustling to one side as they eased themselves up.

The hole through which they had entered lay directly beneath the lower half of a large bed, under which there was just room enough for them to creep out. In the bed, propped up among a nest of cushions, lay a little old woman. Her face was wrinkled but her black eyes were sharp. She greeted them with a wide, toothless grin and muttered an unintelligible remark.

Box beamed at her. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Be careful.”

A voice spoke out of the gloom that enveloped the far end of the room, and the next moment a tall figure glided forward. A woman dressed in the uniform of a Sister of Mercy stood before them. She looked the part perfectly but a Mother Superior would have been surprised at her attitude.

“You can’t go out there,” she said. “It’s dangerous. It’s a good job you put me on watch. She’s so old you never know what she might tell “em. The police have been here three times tonight already. They’ve questioned everybody in the mews. They don’t suspect us more than anyone else, but they’ve got their eyes on the whole place. For heaven’s sake be careful.”

Box signalled to her to be quiet and tiptoed over towards the door. Opening a flap in the panelling, he peered out. The sight which met his eyes was not reassuring. Three men stood talking in the middle of the yard. He fancied he could see other men lurking at the only exit. But what particularly displeased him was the fact that the tallest of the three, not a dozen yards away from him, was Fisher himself. The man seemed to be ubiquitous.

Box swore under his breath. He had underestimated the energy of this apparently slow-witted young man. It was evident that he was tenacious, too—certainly not a man easily put off his purpose.

A sudden misgiving seized the watching crook. Perhaps he had been unwise in associating himself with the flat. Perhaps already Fisher knew too much. Box drew out his revolver.

Then he beckoned his two companions and gave them some muttered but explicit instructions.

“Look here, Grace,” he went on, turning to the woman. “You lie low. They’ll come here, but don’t worry about that. Rave at “em for disturbing the old woman, if you like, but don’t forget to play your part. This is going to be a ticklish job, but the way we shall work it I don’t think there’s a chance in a million that they’ll associate us with you if you act properly. Are you ready, Tim? Tackle low, remember.”

The big man grunted and Jack laughed softly.

“That’s Fisher himself out there, isn’t it?” he whispered. “Will you get him?”

Box’s hand closed over the butt of his gun.

“I might,” he whispered back. “It occurs to me, Jack, that I might. Now, ready?”

He pulled the flap in the door open wider. His movements were so quiet that even those in the room could not hear him make the least sound. Having got the way clear and with a stream of cool air blowing in upon his face, Box felt in his coat pocket.

He drew out one of the silver balls and held it for a moment poised between thumb and forefinger. Then he raised his arm and there was a click far off across the yard as the pellet struck the bricks.

One of the three plainclothesmen swung round in its direction, but seeing nothing, he turned again to his companions. What he had not noticed in the darkness was the cloud of greyish mist arising from the broken missile.

Box hurled another of the smoke bombs, and another; one in the direction of the gateway, one farther down the yard. The effect was just what he had intended. Within a minute great clouds of smoke were belching out of the yard, with the detectives coughing and staggering in the midst of them. Someone was blowing a police whistle.

Box seized his opportunity. The moment the smoke became dense enough to cover him he threw open the door and, with his two companions, slipped out. The woman closed and barred the way behind them.

The difficulty of the smoke screen was that once in it, they were blinded themselves, but Box was undeterred. He pressed on towards the opening at the far end of the mews.

A figure loomed towards them and Box had the satisfaction of seeing Tim hurl himself upon the policeman and knock him to the ground. With Jack behind him, he hurried forward. As he reached the entrance to the narrow way which led out of the mews into the street, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure towering up through the billowing smoke. It was Fisher, standing ready to seize any man who attempted to leave the yard.

Box raised his gun.

It was at that moment that the young inspector slipped off the kerb, stumbled, and thus saved his life. A bullet whirled by his head and flattened itself against the brickwork of the house behind him. Seeing his way was clear, the crook did not hesitate, but dashed through the passage into the street.

Jack would have followed him but he had reckoned without Fisher. From comparative safety Box, looking over his shoulder, saw the two men struggling. He fired again and heard Fisher cry out as he staggered and clapped his hand to his chest. Box waited for no more. He walked swiftly away in the direction of Oxford Circus.

The shots caused uniformed men to come hurrying to the scene. Turning a corner, Box was nearly knocked over by one of them.

“I say, there’s something very dangerous going on down there, constable,” he said, his voice squeaky with excitement. “It looks as though a house is on fire in Winton Mews. I was going to have a look at it, but then I heard the shots, so I thought perhaps I’d better get out of the way.”

“You thought right, sir,” said the officer, who had no time for foolish young men. “You get along.” As he spoke he continued down the street at the double. Box did not trouble to glance after him. Instead he strode on, feeling particularly pleased with himself

At Oxford Circus, he turned into a public call box and rang up Mr. Rupert Thurtle at the American Hotel in Cornwall Street, where he was staying under the assumed name of Crayle. He was answered almost immediately and Box guessed that Thurtle junior had been finding it hard to sleep.

“Hullo, Mr. Thurtle,” Box said softly.

There was no reply, during which the American was making up his mind whether to admit to the name or not.

Box continued speaking: “I’m afraid I can’t introduce myself very fully over the phone, but I am alone and I bring you a message from the ‘Old Wizard”. Do you hear me? ‘Old Wizard”. Could I see you at once?”

A smothered exclamation at the other end told him that the use of the family nickname had been successful.

“Right. Yes. When can you come?”

Box answered cautiously.

“I could be with you in under ten minutes. By the way, Mr. Thurtle, I should advise you not to play any tricks. Communication with the police will be followed by the instant lodging with them of information concerning your luggage. Do you understand me?”

“I don’t know who you are,” said Rupert Thurtle, “but if you will come to this hotel at once I will see you alone. I shall not be foolish enough to talk with the police.”

Box hung up the receiver.

Twenty minutes later, a pale-faced, dishevelled young man sat in his hotel bedroom reading and re-reading the message which Box had brought. Box, completely at ease, sat on the edge of the bed.

“Well?” he said at last. “This is a business deal, Mr. Thurtle. I hope you will not raise any objections to a scheme which your father has already approved.”

Rupert Thurtle passed a hand over his forehead. Then he looked up into the face of the man before him.

“This is my father’s handwriting,” he said. “And these are the words he would use. And yet the whole letter is unlike him.”

Box remained silent, and the other man went on:

“I don’t know your name,” he said, “and I don’t expect it would help me if I did, but I feel there is something I must point out to you. That is, the money which you demand is the only weapon I have with which to defend my father legally. If I part with the money and he still falls into the hands of the police, all is lost.”

“In other words, you want to make certain that you are going to get the goods,” said Box easily.

‘Yes, I want to make sure that, if I pay, my father will be a free man—at least so far as you are concerned.”

Box considered. “How soon can you lay your hands on the money?” he inquired.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“It’s in a safe deposit, I suppose?”

“Naturally.”

Box bent forward. “At Lantern Bay, a little place on the coast just beyond Southampton, there is a motor yacht,” he said. “Its captain is a discreet person called Tomlinson. I will see that he meets you at the Ship Hotel, saloon bar, at noon tomorrow. Take the money with you and wait on the boat. I shall bring your father down by car. Pay me the money there. And if you’ll take my advice you will smuggle your father into southern Ireland.

“I warn you. Any attempt to doublecross me or my friends and—well, we are not particularly fond of your father. I don’t suppose any of us would be heartbroken if the police discovered that in attempting to escape he had been accidentally drowned.”

The words were spoken lightly but Rupert Thurtle was left in no doubt as to Box’s true meaning.

“Very well,” he said. “Yes. I—I quite understand. Tomorrow at noon; then—my father.”

“Tomorrow,” Box agreed. “A quarter of a million pounds.” With this, he nodded to young Thurtle and left.

It was nearly dawn when Box, a solitary figure, walked down Perry Street. Since he was alone, he had permitted the mask of bland good humour, which he usually wore, to drop from his face. He did not make the mistake of deceiving himself into thinking the situation was not bad.

For some time now, he had been doing his best to return to his underground retreat where his assistants and prisoner awaited him. It was not simple. Both store entrances to the tube were guarded by police. The garage was being watched and Winton Mews still had uniformed men on duty. All the entrances were blocked.

For the time being he was checked.

He walked on slowly, his quick brain reviewing the situation. He was not sure what effect his shot had had on Fisher, or whether Jack Simmons had been successful in getting away. On the whole, Box rather fancied he had. That young man fought like a fiend and had the slipperiness of the proverbial eel.

Yes—at the moment the outlook was poor. At noon, young Rupert Thurtle would be waiting with the ransom. Somehow or other his father had to be spirited away from beneath the eyes of the police. It was then that Box, in passing, happened to glance up at the uninspired facade of Southwold Mansions. Every window in his flat was ablaze with light.

He stood there looking up and then, with the characteristic recklessness which made him the personality he was, he turned in to the darkened entrance of the flats and went upstairs.

He thrust his latchkey into the lock, turned it and walked in. He closed the door noisily, threw his hat and coat down and strode into the main room.

He had prepared himself to meet any emergency, and nothing but the merest flicker of surprise showed itself when he caught sight of the figure sprawled in the chair in front of the fireplace. It was Fisher.

Fisher looked very white and his shoulder was bandaged. He was also wearing Box’s dressing-gown.

“Hullo, Box,” he said. “I say, I hope you don’t mind me coming back here but I’ve got to hang about in this district, and I’ve had a bit of a scrap. It occurred to me that this was the most comfortable and convenient place to wait. I felt pretty sick when I found you weren’t here, but the door was on the latch and so I walked in and made myself comfortable.”

Box stifled a desire to laugh. There was something very amusing in the situation. So his bullet had gone wide. He was angry with himself for that. He slipped back into the part which he always played in Fisher’s company.

“Not at all—good idea,” he said. “I say, what’s the matter? Hurt yourself? Where have you been all this time? I’ve been careering round the streets looking for you and that girl. When I realised I’d missed you I didn’t feel like coming back. I went on to an all-night cafe in Piccadilly.”

He walked over to the hearthrug and stood looking down with apparently friendly concern at the man he had attempted to kill such a short while before.

“What’s all the drapery for?” he demanded, indicating the bandages.

Fisher grimaced.

“Nothing very much. We had a bit of a dust-up in Winton Mews and a fellow put a bullet through the fleshy part of my shoulder. It’s nothing at all—merely a nuisance.”

Box’s blue eyes grew round with astonishment.

“Really?” he said. “Winton Mews? Why, that’s quite near here, isn’t it? Good heavens, this flat isn’t at all the place for auntie. What’s up? Did you catch the girl?”

“Yes,” Fisher replied. “But that seems hours ago. She had an extraordinary story to tell. D’you know, Box, this flat of yours is owned by crooks?”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so,” Fisher spoke slowly. “I won’t bother you with a lot of details, but there’s an underground tunnel used by two stores as a parcels chute, and the girl was investigating a certain trouble they’d had with their dispatch service when she was kidnapped and brought up here.”

“Really!” said Box again. He was sitting on the edge of his chair with an expression of mingled excitement and alarm on his face. “I say, I’ll move out. I don’t want to be mixed up with anything like this. Look here, what are you doing? Oh! I forgot, you bobbies are like doctors—you never tell, do you?”

The detective grinned. “Not in the usual way,” he said, “but as a matter of fact tonight I feel like a talk, it must be something to do with the dope they pumped into me at the hospital. Box, you can keep your mouth shut, can’t you?”

“Me? I’m as silent as the grave and about as deep.”

“I believe I’m on the verge of a breakthrough. I don’t know if you listen to the news at all but you must have heard of the disappearance of Joseph Thurtle, the financier.”

Box looked vague.

“Oh, yes,” he said, brightening up suddenly as his mind appeared to take hold of the problem. “I do remember now. You fellows made a complete hash of his arrest, didn’t you? There was an article in one of the papers—oh, very uncomplimentary. Are you on to this man?”

The blue eyes revealed nothing but ordinary interest and the hand that held the cigarette was steady.

“If I can only carry through my plan this morning, I shall have Thurtle in custody by one o’clock.”

Box bent forward to flick his ash into the fireplace.

‘Sounds exciting,” he said. ‘Can I hear?”

‘We believe a villain kidnapped Thurtle with the idea of holding him for ransom. He’s a mystery man. We’ve been looking for his hiding place for months, but now I belieye I’ve stumbled upon it. When that fellow shot me I had caught his assistant. The chap wriggled but I got him by the back of the jacket Then my shoulder started to go numb and, although I clung on with one hand, my other hand was helpless. Before the sergeant could catch up with us the man had slipped out and streaked off down the road. I was just left with the coat which won’t be much help.”

He lowered his voice.

‘Their hide-out is in one of the old post office stations along the line of the disused tube and their exit is in the Mews.”

Box raised mild blue eyes to the other man’s face.

‘I can hardly believe it,” he said deliberately.

Fisher continued. “I’ve narrowed it down,” he said complacently, ‘and as soon as it’s light I shall put my plan into action. It’s very simple. These fellows have only three possible exits; either one of the stores and one other in Winton Mews. I’ve arranged for a strong force of police to wait at the beginning of the tunnel in each store.

“I shall have Winton Mews completely surrounded. When I give the signal my two posses will advance down the tube and flush out the crooks into Winton Mews.”

Box, who had been listening to this recital with his head held slightly on one side, regarded the man opposite him. “I say,” he said, “I didn’t think you had it in you. I always imagined you coppers were bone from the neck up. I don’t mean that offensively. It’s the general idea, you know.”

Fisher went on with great satisfaction. “It’s not a bad plan,” he said, “and I’ve got a hunch that it’s going to succeed. I’m only waiting until it is light so there is no possible chance of anyone getting away in the mews. It sounds pretty fool-proof, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Box slowly. ‘Unless—I say—of course, I don’t know anything about these things, but are you sure you’ve got every exit covered? I mean, are you sure they can’t get out some other way?”

“Certain,” Fisher sounded quite childishly pleased with himself. “I thought at first there was another way out through a garage in Grafton Street, and I had the boys watching it until half an hour ago. Then it dawned upon me that we were wasting our time, a view also expressed by my superintendent who complained about the number of men I was tying up! I got a search warrant and examined the place thoroughly and satisfied myself there was nothing there. So I’ve withdrawn the guard.” He paused. “If you don’t mind, I shall wait here until it is light?”

“Of course. What an adventure. I’ve always wanted to be on a police raid. Do you want me to go climbing about sewers?” asked Box.

Fisher laughed. “No, thanks. We’re not co-opting civilians to do our dirty work. You’d better get some sleep.”

“Well, I’m not staying here,” said Box with sudden deliberation. “This place is too darn peculiar for me. The agent can have his flat back. I’m going to sleep in my own bed. This isn’t in my line at all. Finding a flat full of gadgets is one thing, but revolver-shots and kidnappers just haven’t got the same appeal in my young life. I’ll ring you up later in the day and find out if you are still alive.”

Fisher looked uncomfortable. “Look here. I can’t turn you out like this,” he said.

“Nonsense! Anything to oblige a friend. You stay where you are, then if anything further happens in this unconventional flat it’ll happen to you and not to me.”

Box went out into the hall, still talking. Outside the door he drew out his gun and hesitated. Finally, however, he shrugged his shoulders and began to laugh silently to himself. From his point of view the situation had its amusing side.

Mr. Knapp, his pale, unpleasant face greasy with excitement, leaned forward across the table in the “office” where the gang was assembled.

“You’re right, boss; the guard was withdrawn about three quarters of an hour ago.”

The faces of the others, who had spent a night trapped in their own fastness, were haggard, but there was a new light of hope in their eyes.

“Of course it was,” said Box testily. “I’ve just come in that way. I tell you our young friend Fisher has surpassed himself. At the moment he is sitting up in the flat waiting for the light, and I have a fancy that it is going to descend upon him in a blinding flash.”

Perching himself on the edge of the table, he repeated the main substance of the detective’s discourse. Levine began to laugh. Presently Jamieson joined him, and gradually the whole room echoed with their amusement. Box glanced at his watch.

“Knapp,” he asked. “Are the cars ready?”

The little man nodded.

“All set, boss. There’s the Cadillac and the Jensen. They’ll both beat any police car on the roads.” He grinned. “I’ve got a new set of number plates for every twenty miles if necessary.”

“Very well, then.” Box surveyed his forces. “Tim, you’ll drive the Cadillac and Jack the Jensen. Get into the chauffeur’s uniforms and go on up to the cars and the rest of you clear up. Jamieson, you and Levine and Bill take the Jensen and Casson and I will look after Thurtle in the other. We’re making for Lantern Bay, remember. Captain Tomlinson has orders to put out as soon as he gets young Rupert aboard. Then if he should have any idea of double-crossing us, our tracks are covered. We’ll wait for them at Lantern Bay, hand over the prisoner, share the money and then everyone follows his own escape route as planned.”

As he spoke, he moved over to the desk and methodically took every scrap of paper out of it. Having satisfied himself that there was nothing left in the room which could possibly incriminate any of them, he signalled to Knapp, who brought a duster.

Meanwhile the others had donned wash-leather gloves, and within a few minutes every surface of the room had been wiped clear of fingerprints. It was a most methodical, careful piece of work, which any policeman could scarcely have helped appreciating. At last everything was ready. Box glanced at his watch. Five minutes to five.

“I fancy we have about half an hour to spare,” he remarked. “Unless—hello!”

They paused, listening. Unusual sounds were issuing from the staircase which led down into the tube. The raid was beginning. Box was very cool, and his blue eyes were dancing. He seemed to be enjoying the situation.

“Come,” he said. “We shall just do it, and in great style.”

He led the way down the staircase into the tunnel. Casson and Levine brought Thurtle along between them. He seemed to be completely apathetic.

Far away, from both ends of the tube, came the hollow sound of voices. The police were making no secret of their attack, and Box reflected, with a thrill of amusement, that Fisher had been so certain of success, so convinced that every exit was stopped.

After moving some thirty yards Box led the way through a door in the wall to a second stone staircase. Here the air was close and stifling. He hurried on to a square landing, leading out of which there was a second door.

He pushed this open cautiously, and entered into a small, cupboard-like apartment, where the air was surprisingly fresh. The reason for this became obvious when one glanced up to find that this was the inspection pit of Mr. Knapp’s garage, which had been built by the previous tenant by the simple expedient of cutting off the head of the cellar stairs.

Box pulled himself out lightly, and leaned back to help Levine hoist up their prisoner. It was not quite daylight, and it was still dark in the garage. The doors had been opened, however, and against the grey patch of light which they framed, the cars loomed out, dark and graceful.

The crooks moved swiftly. As soon as Box’s head appeared above the inspection pit the uniformed figures in the drivers’ seats started their engines, and Mr. Knapp, who had been the last man up, spoke in a muffled whisper to his leader.

“Hurry, boss. I hear the trucks moving. I expect they’re using them. It’s going to be a near thing.”

Box chuckled.

“It’s going to make them very sick,” he said. “We shall wriggle out straight under their noses, net the money and get away with it.”

He sprang lightly into the back of the car, where Casson had already seated himself with Thurtle beside him. Mr. Knapp seated himself on the floor at their feet.

“Let her go, Tim.”

The car leapt forward, and Box leaned back among the cushions, a smile of complete satisfaction spreading over his face. His eyes fell idly upon the shoulders of the man who had just brought the car swinging out of the garage. As he stared he noticed something which sent a chill down his spine.

Between the back of the chauffeur’s collar and his cap was a tiny end of surgical bandage. The man who drove the car in which he and his prisoner rode so complacendy had a wounded shoulder.

With a muttered exclamation, Box leaned forward and felt for his gun, but at that instant the car came to an abrupt stop. Box was thrown off balance and in that moment his chance of escape vanished.

Doors were pulled open and armed men appeared. From his position of vantage in the driver’s seat Bob Fisher turned round. He smiled as he removed his cap.

The Jensen had been pulled up at the same time a little farther down the street, and the grinning detective who had taken Jack Simmons’ place climbed out into the road.

The round-up was complete, neat and precise in every detail. The hidden police had swept down upon the can immediately their drivers had brought them to a standstill.

Joseph Thurtle, alone unperturbed among the wrestling throng, permitted himself to be led quietly into a police car and driven this time without adventure to Scotland Yard. The other men put up a fight, but they were completely unprepared for the attack and proved no match for their assailants.

It was some time later when George Box was being driven to headquarters, with Fisher seated on one side and Davidson on the other, that the slightly puzzled expression returned to his blue eyes.

“I don’t bear any grudge against you, Fisher,” he said affably. “This is first blood to you. You laid a trap and I fell into it. I thought you underestimated my intelligence. It happens; I misjudged yours. But what I want to know is this: How did you spot me? When did you realise I wasn’t quite the innocent friend who had rung you up to show you a peculiar flat?”

“You’re under arrest. You take my advice and keep quiet,” said Inspector Davidson.

Box shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m naturally curious. After all, I think you owe it to me.”

Fisher turned, and for a moment, his shrewd grey eyes met those of the crook.

“Two little incidents,” he said, “and one rather striking corroboration of the suspicion planted in my mind. When I looked over your entertaining flat, you told me you had only been in the place five or six hours. And yet every ash tray was filled with cigarette stubs. My naturally inquiring mind compelled me to have a look at them. They were all of your own particular brand, with the tips discoloured. You’re a very wet smoker, Box. Perhaps that’s why you only smoke them half-way through?

“Of course, that was a very small point, but it did occur to me that no human being could have smoked so much in a mere afternoon. That put me on my guard.”

He paused. “Then, when the young woman made her sudden and startling appearance, I caught a glimpse of your face. I expected you to be surprised, astounded, bewildered—anything. Yet I saw none of these. You were angry. At the time I didn’t understand.”

Box laughed unpleasantly.

“You’re a brighter little detective than what I thought,” he said. “Anything else? I’m afraid it doesn’t strike me as being very conclusive so far.”

Fisher grinned.

“It was your generosity which undid you in the end,” he said. “I think I told you that in the fracas in the mews one of my assailants slipped his jacket. That coat had a tailor’s label with his client’s name neatly written inside. Do you give all your old clothes away to your gang?”

Box swore.